The Final Solution
by Riandra
Summary: August, 1891. Holmes and his companions have escaped from Switzerland, but Watson's blood won't be the last on Colonel Moran's hands. The world stage is being set for something far more momentous... and all too soon, Holmes will learn just how much he is prepared to sacrifice to help prevent a war. Sequel to 'A Study In Regret'.
1. Chapter 1

SWAN FLOWN FROM BROKEN NEST STOP DOVE LEADING LOHENGRIN STOP TELRAMUND NEAR BRIDAL CHAMBER STOP HERALD FINAL STOP

* * *

"Get up." ..._blood and vomit sour in Holmes' mouth, the stink of singed hair..._

The battered detective remained limp, lifeless, the heavy, booted tread closing in warily. A pine needle was tickling his nose and his right eye was beginning to smart, sweat had trickled in without his realising.

"You heard me!" _...coarse laughter rasping in his ears, his choked gasps as they hauled him, half-drowned, out of the freezing water..._

Holmes closed his throat on a grunt as the blunt end of a rough quarterstaff jabbed viciously into his lower back – but Lestrade had used that particular tactic once too often and Holmes was already moving, rolling backwards onto the branch, forcing it out of the Inspector's hands. Squinting against the afternoon sun, he lashed out viciously with the captured weapon at knee height – he'd quickly learnt that Lestrade showed no mercy and expected even less – then froze in mid-strike at the cold prick of a knife point below his ear.

"How many more times, sir?" Lestrade tutted from behind. "An enemy trying the same trick twice..."

"...doesn't mean he's predictable – yes, all _right_," Holmes sighed, trying not to look relieved as the Inspector resheathed his knife. "And what about you, letting go of the staff because you were certain I wouldn't fall for the same trick a third time? If that isn't predicting your opponent..."

"And thus endeth the lesson," Lestrade grinned, offering him a hand up. "Don't trust anything I tell you, either."

* * *

Their evening meal was, as usual, a quiet one. More often than not, both men were too weary from their exertions by the end of the day to expend any remaining strength on filling the silence: the once-awkward silence that had slowly grown comfortable through constant wear, long before they'd ever come to this forest.

Holmes leant back against tonight's sheltering tree, watching the last of the sunlight inch its way along the uppermost limbs. Just once, he mused, it would be nice to risk a campfire, or start even one morning with coffee – they'd never spent more than a single night in one place, the entire... good Lord, was it three weeks already? Then again, considering how preoccupied he'd been of late...

Starting at dawn on their very first morning, Lestrade had been driving Holmes daily through a gruelling physical regime: every possible calisthenic known to man, interwoven with endless combat training. The dismayed detective had been forced to admit, however, that when Lestrade wasn't bellowing in his ear or whacking him around the shins, the Inspector could more than match whatever he demanded of his trainee. Holmes also noted Lestrade was taking care not to let him fall into a predictable routine. One day might be spent entirely in tracking each other from one end of the Black Forest to the other; a good portion of another day spent working his way free of his bonds, whenever he failed to evade the Inspector's latest ambush... and today had been devoted mostly to staffs and cudgels. Lestrade, already an expert in wielding a truncheon, hadn't even bothered to conceal his satisfaction at being able to give his opponent a sound drubbing.

Holmes couldn't really begrudge the man his enjoyment, though. Having a weapon of his own, and the chance to give back as good as he received, had already made a greater difference to his own state of mind than he would have thought possible. More and more often, he was spending whole nights in blessed, dreamless sleep, waking only when the Inspector prodded him in the ribs the next morning. Holmes wasn't certain why his mind was becoming more tranquil, as his body's former strength and vigour gradually returned, but since it allowed him to rest between labours without his memories tormenting him at every breath, he was content to simply let it happen.

Content... yes, in an odd sort of way, Holmes supposed he was. Despite his ongoing concerns over Roland – of whom they'd had no word since his return to Baden – and Mary – mother and child-to-be safe for the moment at the priory – the detective was beginning to regret that soon, all too soon, he and his colleague must leave this verdant haven to undertake the most hazardous work of their lives.

"Lestrade...?" Holmes frowned as the name left his lips – he hadn't actually meant to speak aloud.

"Mm?" The Inspector's hum sounded extremely reluctant coming from where he lay, pocket handkerchief draped over his face as per usual – he must have been all but asleep. Oh well, no sense in dithering now.

"Did you mean what you said, back at the barn?"

"Er... which part?" Lestrade now sounded downright bewildered; understandable, really, that particular... incident had occurred over a month ago.

"About neither of us surviving this." _At least you might be able to look the Doctor in the eye the next time you see him..._

"Oh, that." Lestrade yawned. "Course not – don't be daft."

Holmes' frown deepened. "Excuse me?"

"Well, think about it: if you don't make it, there's going to be a mile-long line of criminals queuing up to spit on your grave." Lestrade's satisfied smirk was audible: "And I plan to be waiting to slap on the handcuffs."

* * *

_Footsteps on the path, muffled by the falls..._

_"__No rest for the wicked, eh, Holmes?" Watson smiles as he waves goodbye, Moriarty's forged letter crumpled in his hand a clear sign of his uncertainty; anxious to help ease the poor woman's suffering, yet still hesitant to leave his friend alone in this fearful place. Ah, but Watson forgets – Holmes is not quite alone, he has this unfortunate scrap of humanity for company. Roland, Steiler's hired boy, stands to one side, fingers nervously twitching – as well they might! Were Holmes in his situation, he should hardly dread Moriarty's arrival less than he does already._

_The detective leans against the rock, arms folded, forcing himself to smile back at his friend. Thank heaven Watson does not suspect... and, God willing, the wicked will be laid to rest soon enough... _

_Forgive me, John..._

* * *

Lestrade groaned as Holmes prodded him in the ribs. "Wha' issit?" His eyes cracked open, then widened in bleary surprise; the detective was bending over him with a freshly-brewed cup of black coffee, trying not to look overly smug at being the first one awake, for a change. "All right... Dare I ask what the occasion is?"

Holmes waited for his colleague to sit up, then handed him the cup. "It's time, Lestrade." Even if his growing restlessness wasn't enough of a sign, the dream that had woken the detective just before dawn would have convinced him all on its own.

The Inspector's expression cleared. "Finally. I was wondering when you were going to get that bee lodged in your deerstalker."

Holmes snorted; Lestrade knew perfectly well what he thought of such ludicrous headgear. The only time he'd ever worn one had been while camping in Dartmoor, and that out of pure necessity. "Whenever you're ready, Inspector."

Lestrade shot Holmes a pointed look as he blew the steam off his mug, relaxing back against the nearest tree. "I've been waiting on you the last three weeks, sir; now you can have the decency to let me enjoy my coffee in peace. Something tells me it's the last I'll be getting for some time."

"Coffee or peace?" Holmes smirked, taking the hint and seating himself again.

Lestrade sighed. "Either."

* * *

Holmes was relieved to find that re-entering Baden-Baden wasn't as overwhelming as he'd imagined; all that time with only his colleague for company hadn't completely turned him back into a hermit, it seemed. He did have quite a start as they approached Lichtenthal Abbey, however – he'd forgotten just how loud that confounded bell was.

"All right, sir?"

Holmes straightened hastily, giving Lestrade's hand on his elbow a pointed stare until it was removed. "Perfectly."

Lestrade nodded, looking annoyingly unabashed, gaze turning back to the priory's front archway. "Think she's forgiven us yet?"

The detective shrugged. "I expect so, we didn't disrupt things that much." Fortunately, one combat lesson in the cloister courtyard had been enough for the abbess to firmly invite them to find a different training ground.

"Mary, you idiot, not the Mother Superior," Lestrade sighed. "You know she'll have realised by now that we meant to get ourselves thrown out – she's not stupid."

"I know..." Holmes frowned. "Although you must admit she did seem rather relieved at the time."

Lestrade snorted. "And no wonder, with you constantly hovering! She must have been delighted to see the back of you."

What nonsense, he hadn't been hovering, merely attentive. It wasn't as if there'd been anything else to do, anyhow, besides counting those damned chimes. And the Inspector could hardly judge, given his nursemaiding of Holmes at the hospital. "Need I remind you that Mary's condition..."

"... was mostly annoyed at being waited on hand and foot." Lestrade's stern expression softened. "Look, I'm not blaming either of you, all right? But if you want Mary to admit to having missed you, like I _know_ you've missed her, try keeping in mind that she's survived the last three weeks without either of us."

As if Holmes could forget. It might have been the best solution for all concerned, but leaving Mary and her unborn child with the nuns was an even greater wrench than he'd imagined. He _had_ missed her company, there was no denying that – and he didn't want to think about how much worse it would be when he and Lestrade left for Switzerland again... especially since neither of them had remembered to practice their German since training began.

* * *

**Author's note:** Yes, folks, Part 2 is in progress. Sorry for the long wait, the evil Doctor Reality is pulling out all the stops this time. That's the main reason I'm updating on FFN, you wonderful, impatient readers do help to keep me motivated. Positive reviews and constructive criticism welcome... well, the reviews, at least, I don't know a single writer who *likes* criticism, however helpful. ;)


	2. Chapter 2

Holmes sank into his bath with a sigh of bliss, nostrils flaring at the scent of carbolic. Thermal springs the region might have in plenty, which had been a most welcome thing after a day of exercise – but _soap_... He would never take that humble article for granted again.

The sisters had taken one look at him and Lestrade on their return and escorted them straight to the bathhouse at arms' length, with strict instructions not to emerge until they were no longer at risk of offending 'Fraulein Marta's' senses, who was apparently in the middle of teaching a sewing class. Having experienced Mary's distaste for poor hygiene firsthand at the Schultz chalet, Holmes was only too happy to comply.

"Oh, the police force is a noble band that safely guard our streets..." The detective grimaced at Lestrade's strident voice echoing suddenly from the next stall. "Their valor is unquestion'd and they're monarchs on their beats..."

"I hope most of them sing better than you," Holmes responded dryly, resisting the temptation to plug his ears.

Lestrade blithely ignored him and continued on: "If anything you wish to know, they'll tell you with a grin; In fact, each one of them is a complete 'inquire within'..."

"Mm, how d'you think that inquiry's going back home?" The words were out of Holmes' mouth before he realised – and to his dismay, all singing and splashing from the neighbouring cubicle ceased abruptly. Damn... "Lestrade?"

No reply. Holmes blushed crimson, deeply thankful for the dividing wall. He hadn't imagined broaching so awkward a subject in such an undignified setting. "Lestrade, I... I do apologise, I hadn't considered..."

"Really."

Holmes bit his lip, the Inspector's voice was worryingly flat. "It wasn't your fault, Lestrade. You did the best you could..."

"And it wasn't good enough!" The detective started at the outburst. "If we hadn't let Moriarty escape...!"

_"__...I think that you had better return to England, Watson. You will find me a dangerous companion now..." Holmes stares into the grate at the burning telegram, waiting with held breath for Watson's answer._

_"__When haven't I, old friend?" the doctor chuckles lightly, his chin set at a very familiar angle..._

Holmes found himself gripping the sides of the bath, knuckles white. He drew a long, shaky breath, trying to ignore his hammering pulse, then levered himself up out of the water and reached for the towel. Lestrade was already dressed and combing his hair when Holmes entered, a fresh shirt clinging damply to his torso beneath the waistcoat – had the Inspector even remembered to dry off at all?

"Lestrade..." Holmes trailed off with a sigh. What the devil was he supposed to say? Regardless of motive, whoever warned Moriarty had been one of Lestrade's comrades, and not even knowing who it was had to be all the more galling... or perhaps it was a relief.

The Inspector shook his head grimly. "Save your breath, sir." Lestrade sat and began pulling on his boots, his next words answering Holmes' unspoken question. "And no, given the choice, I'd rather not know which of my so-called _colleagues_ tipped the bastard off..." stamping his heel down hard on the word 'colleagues', "but if we want Mary safe, then we don't really have one, do we?"

Holmes' answering smile was equally grim. "You don't suspect anyone in particular?"

Lestrade raised his head, finally meeting the detective's gaze, eyes still troubled. "If I did, sir, you'd be the first to know." The Inspector turned away to gather his old clothes. "I'll see you back at the cells." A sudden grin. "And don't forget to dress, that towel's really not your colour."

It only occurred to Holmes once he was alone, brow creased at the unsettling thought: for the first time in their long acquaintance, Lestrade hadn't actually given him a straight answer.

* * *

The midday bell had sounded by the time Holmes finished making himself presentable – well, as much as was possible without shaving. There didn't seem to be much point in getting rid of the beard yet, not until there was a definite call for it. He supposed he must still look like a vagabond, but that was all to the good, really.

As he approached the room which he and Lestrade had shared before their hasty departure, Holmes' heart gave a most illogical bound to hear Mary's voice coming from inside, her relief at their safe return plainly audible, even behind a closed door. Despite his own relief at hearing for himself that Mary was all right, the detective couldn't help a slight smirk; being the first to arrive back, Lestrade would no doubt have borne the brunt of the woman's wrath.

"Fools rush in, Inspector," Holmes murmured, knocking softly... then frowned as an unexpected set of footsteps approached the door, quick and light. Who...?

"_Herr Holmes_!" Holmes gaped at the sight of the blond youth standing in front of him, beaming – then Roland had pulled Holmes inside and flung his arms around the detective, crushing the breath out of him.

"_Roland, please, mercy!_" A laughing Holmes managed to free his own arms, returning the hug tightly. Thank God... "_When did you get here?_"

"_Two days ago_," Mary spoke up from her perch on the end of Lestrade's bed, smiling. "_And spent most of that time sleeping, poor thing, he was exhausted_."

Roland gave Holmes' frown a shrug. "_I used to help the charcoal burner in Meiringen, mein herr – you learn to make the most of whatever sleep you get._"

"_But how did you find us, son?_" Lestrade asked, brow furrowed in concentration. "_Did Father Siegfried tell you..._?"

"_Mother Weibchen is still caring for Brigitte, Inspektor,_" Roland smiled. "_It didn't take long to convince her I meant no harm._" The youth sobered, turning back to Holmes. "_There's a lot to tell you all, Herr Holmes... but... some of it is only for you..._" Roland reached into his jacket, and drew out a sealed blank envelope, creased and battered – but the quality of the paper was still apparent to the trained observer, and Holmes felt his insides lurch. He knew only one person who used that heavy stationery, disdaining the cheap supplies issued at Whitehall.

"Sir? Is that...?"

Holmes nodded mutely, staring down at the envelope in his hands; he couldn't even remember taking it.

"All right, you two, the dinner bell rang ages ago." Holmes felt rather than saw Lestrade herding the others out of the door, who then paused to look back over his shoulder and added quietly, "We'll save you a seat, Mr. Holmes."

The detective could only nod again gratefully, a lump in his throat. He wouldn't be going anywhere for a while.

* * *

_Dear brother,_

_Forgive me, I hardly know where to begin. I am, of course, glad to hear that you and your companions are safe and well at present. I deeply regret being unable to join you at this difficult time, but rest assured that I shall do my part to hasten your return. It seems probable, however, that your latest responsibilities may not be fulfilled as swiftly or easily as either of us hope. We live in interesting times, after all. I trust the instruments I have sent to you may be of some use in that regard. _

_It is a great pity that the one who could have best advised you is also absent..._

Holmes took several calming breaths, smoothing the now crumpled paper back out. Mycroft's precise copperplate would have deceived almost anyone – but the detective could see plainly where his brother's hand had trembled as he wrote.

_I feel quite certain, however, that more ill than good would be served by your reunion at this juncture. You were not to blame, brother mine... _

"...Sherlock?" Holmes started at the gentle touch on his hand. Mary was sitting beside him, eyes full of concern. "Is Mycroft all right?"

The detective nodded, clearing his throat. "Er, yes, he... seems well enough..." He folded the letter back up and slipped it into the pocket of his waistcoat; the last thing the poor woman needed was to read what Mycroft had written about her husband. "He sends you his regards, of course – you and the Inspector."

Mary's smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "Most kind of him, I'm sure. Did he mention what else he's sending?" The woman tsked kindly as Holmes' mouth fell open. "You really are going to have to work on that mask of yours, Sherlock. Roland's had an air of mystery about him since he came back, and I sincerely doubt he read your brother's letter, given that he barely even speaks any English."

"Mycroft did make a reference to 'instruments' – I can only assume he meant the agent whom Roland went to intercept." Holmes frowned. "But then why did he arrive here alone?"

"Well, now that we're all together again, perhaps you could ask him." This time Mary's smile was quite genuine – one could almost say radiant... now he knew what he had missed about her the most... or perhaps it was her eyes... gazing into his with such warmth... and... growing _fear_...

"Mary...?" But she shrank back from the hand he offered as though it might burn her, pregnant belly seeming to be no hindrance this time as she hastily stood, Holmes rising with her.

"I'm s-sorry, Sherlock, I'm not... I-I don't feel very well..." Yet her face was flushed rather than pale, and her eyes would not meet his.

"Is there anything I can do?"

"No!" Mary cringed, perhaps taken aback by her own vehemence. "I'll be all right, I just... need to go and lie down." She sighed as the detective hesitated, finally looking him in the face. "Sherlock, if you don't stop fussing this minute, I'll run off and live in the forest myself for the next five months! I expect I just had too much lunch. Which reminds me, you really ought to go and have something as well. The last thing we need is you making yourself ill again." And then she was hurrying out of the door towards her own room, leaving the detective staring after her, completely bewildered.


End file.
